


With Or Without A Map

by TeaandBanjo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Ms Fisher's MODern Murder Mysteries (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Shoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaandBanjo/pseuds/TeaandBanjo
Summary: Peregrine's car breaks down.  She and Birdie are going to have to walk, and now they have time for a story...





	With Or Without A Map

Miss Peregrine Fisher paused on the dirt shoulder of the dirt road, and gazed into the distance.  There was a surprising amount of grass waving in the breeze, punctuated by occasional trees.  “How much farther, Birdie? My feet are absolutely killing me.”

“The map said we were four and a half miles from Werribee when the car broke down.”  Birdie fanned herself with her hat.

“How do you even know that?”  Peregrine had wondered why the older woman took the map when they left the car.

“Contour lines on the map, Peri.  We were at the top of a small rise. Remind me to show you how to really read a map sometime.”

“You didn’t even try to fix the car, you just looked under the hood.”  Peri stood on one foot and removed her shoe. 

“The distributor spring is broken.  There is nothing I can do.” She pulled the thing out of her pocket and tossed it from one hand to the other.  “If we can find a garage that has a replacement for an Aston Martin, I’ll get a ride back and put it in.”

“I’ve got a blister now.”  She gingerly replaced the shoe.  “I feel like we’ve been walking for days.”

“Thirty minutes… call it a mile and half.”  Birdie regarded her younger companion. “You really shouldn’t wear any shoes you can’t run in.”

“Thanks for telling me that now!”   She wrinkled her nose for a moment.

“Just keep moving.”  Birdie grinned. “I’ll tell you a story to pass the time.  It was after curfew, and I was in a section of Paris that had been pretty seedy even before the Occupation….”

  
  


She was really hoping this alley cut through to the Boulevard.  The address was quite clear, but Birdie was almost certain that she had gotten turned around.  

A door opened nearby, and someone reached out to pull her into the doorway.  “Attend! Regardes-tu les flics!” A male voice spoke in a rough whisper. 

Birdie squinted into the darkness.  Occupation soldiers or police would not take kindly to anyone out after curfew, and she couldn’t afford to be caught.  There was a shuffle of footsteps deep inside the room, and a drawer opening and closing. 

...then the jingle of metal, from very close behind her.

Without a thought, she spun to face the man.   Dark, shabby clothing blurred into the background, but the handcuffs he was holding were perfectly clear.

On impulse, she snatched them out of his grasp, and flung herself back out into the alley.  

Now she was being pursued, and her footsteps were no longer stealthy.  Neither was her pursuer. She sprinted back the way she came…

...and dodged two men in dark uniforms.  

Birdie skidded to a stop and turned to face her pursuer.

He was holding his hands up, and saying something. 

Birdie flung the handcuffs at him, and let her feet carry her away with no direction in mind.

She could hear voices behind her, but their argument was no longer of any importance, not compared to the need to be far away.

There was nothing but the pounding of her feet on the pavement, the sound of her breath, and a silent wish that she would not step in a hole in the dark.

After a couple of random turns, she felt safe enough to slow to a walk, and wait for the stitch in her side to let up.

She found the doorway of a restaurant.  The windows were dark, and the awning over the door would have shaded her from streetlights, if Paris wasn’t in blackout anyway.    

She listened for pursuit, but all she could hear was her own breathing, and the pounding of her own heartbeat.  

Birdie glanced down.  Her hands were shaking.  She wondered why.

Her memory played back the whole thing for her.  Handcuffs. Flight. 

Her attacker had said, in German, “Stop, don’t hurt me.” when she turned to face him.  She wondered how she could have appeared so threatening.

The other two men, now that she stopped to think about it, had said, in French, “Halt, police.  Show your papers.”

Somehow, the two things she’d been hoping to avoid had neutralized each other, long enough for her to run away.  

“Why are my hand still shaking?” she wondered.  “I mean, aside from being lost, in the middle of occupied Paris.  Pull yourself together, girl. You have things to do tonight.”   
  


 

“So, what really happened?”  asked Peregrine, who seemed pleasantly surprised that there was a clump of trees to block out the Australian sun for a few minutes.

“I calmed down, looked carefully around my surroundings, and noticed that someone had kindly not vandalized the sign at the bus shelter with the route marked out.  It turned out I was only a mile and a half away from where I needed to make the drop, and everything else went smoothly.”

“No, I mean, who was the guy?  What did want?” 

“I don’t have any idea.  He might have been looking for spies, he might have been looking for a victim.”  Birdie shrugged. “All I know is I picked exactly the right time to run.”

“Is that why you always wear sensible shoes?”

“No, it’s because I’m old and my feet hurt.”  She turned and looked back down the road. “I see some dust, I think we might have a car coming our way soon.”


End file.
